


mischance

by bonebo



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, OMCs - Freeform, Talon - Freeform, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-14
Updated: 2016-11-14
Packaged: 2018-08-30 23:50:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8554531
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonebo/pseuds/bonebo
Summary: “Mission failed. The target escaped.”
Reaper’s breath shudders past his teeth in a long, drawn-out hiss.





	

_“Mission failed. The target escaped.”_

Reaper’s breath shudders past his teeth in a long, drawn-out hiss. 

Sombra’s voice rings in his ears for the duration of their flight back to Talon HQ--he snaps at the girl as soon as she and Widowmaker climb onto the ship, criticising her lax attitude, her incompetence; and he gets a hot earful for his trouble, sharp-tongued Spanish flung back at him too quick for his Americanized mind to translate back to English, to understand. The language of what should be his home turned to a weapon against him is a weakness that, even decades later, he still has no defense against. 

So he gives up arguing with her for the relative comfort of sinking into a seat and turning his back to them all. He can hear Sombra’s huff, her muttered curse-- _estúpido hijo de puta_ , and that, he understands. Her footsteps fade as the ship’s engines roar to life.  
 _  
Mission failed._

_Mission failed._

_Mission failed.  
_  
Over the din of the craft, it still lingers in his mind, keeps him uneasy. This had been the third mission in a row that Talon sent him on, and it’ll be the third in a row where he comes back without anything to show for it. He remembers the anger in the Director’s eyes, after the incident at Gibraltar; the ice in his voice as he’d told Reaper, in very plain English, that this was his last chance.

He sighs quietly, lets his head rest against the wall of the aircraft, and closes his eyes against the minute vibrations that travel through it. They make the metal implants in his teeth buzz.

 

-x-

 

It feels like the flights are always shorter, when imminent punishment awaits him at the destination.

They all leave the ship together, but he’s the only one who heads for the Director’s office instead of the barracks. The leader of their missions-- _Talon’s greatest asset_ \--and the only one to blame when it all comes crashing down.

The Director’s office is as simple as he remembers it to be. Hardwood floors that creak under his boots, two guards standing motionless against the back wall, and a desk that bars him from the man he’d like to strangle most days. The Director of Talon’s operations sits lounged in his chair and looking up at Reaper from behind slim glasses, his narrow brows furrowed and thin lips set in a scowl.

“Reaper.” He rolls the name off his tongue like something vile; a poison. Doesn’t bother straightening up in his chair as he runs his thumb over a small silver remote held in his hands. “You have good news for me, I hope.”

Reaper’s eyes settle on the remote, briefly, remembers just how much hurt it can cause; the cybernetics affixed along his spine tingle unpleasantly as they, too, remember. He swallows in an attempt to rid his mouth of the taste of old blood. It doesn’t work.

“The target escaped. Our mission failed.” 

The words are ash on his tongue, bitter--and he knows there’s no point in trying to push the blame on anyone but himself. He was leading the infiltration, and he let himself get closed off from the target. He trusted Sombra to be able to handle his slack, even knowing everything that was riding on this mission’s success.

It’s a mistake he won’t repeat again.

“Failed,” the Director repeats. His voice lacks the anger Reaper was expecting, but is no less cold. “That’s interesting...I could have sworn I told you last time that you don’t get another chance. That another failure would bring punishment.”

“You did… _sir_ ,” he adds, as a hasty afterthought, watching the Director’s face darken. The guards behind him shift their posture, and Reaper’s eyes dart up to watch them, wary of the pistols holstered at their thighs.

He misses the way the Director’s fingers turn on the dial. Another mistake.

Electricity races up his spine like white fire, seizing his body in a vice grip. He collapses like a puppet with its strings cut, feeling the flesh of his back burning as the cybernetics are overloaded, shorted out one by one. They pop noisily in a smoky trail up the silver of his back, and he hits the ground face-first, paralyzed without the support that the technology gives to his ruined spine. 

The pain overwhelms everything he knows. It’s too intense for him to even scream about, so all-consuming that it steals the very breath from his lungs; and then as soon as it’s there it’s gone again, disappearing in an instant and leaving nothing but cold numbness in its wake. Gabriel is almost soothed by it, can almost settle in the bleak nothingness--

Until he realizes he can’t breathe.

Without the cybernetics of his spine, Reaper has lost all control below his shoulders--even to his organs. He’s helpless as he’s grabbed by the back of his cloak, his eyes wide as his lungs struggle to pull in air, gasping and desperate when he’s turned to face the Director again.

The man’s thin lips are pulled into a tight smile. “I did warn you.”

He snaps his fingers, and Reaper is moved again, like he’s nothing--dragged across the floor and hoisted up onto the edge of the broad desk, his legs splayed wide. Reaper can smell the ozone of his blood but can’t feel how sharp knives cut his clothes away, leaving him bare and exposed to the hands that wander over his flesh; his mind has to fill in the gaps that his ruined nerves provide him with, patch the holes created by the mere scraps of contact his skin can still register. His lungs twitch on a sudden, shallow breath, and he gasps noisily. A colossal hand grinds his face into the desk as punishment.

“Quit being so dramatic,” the Director says, sounding almost bored as he walks up behind Reaper, appraises the sight of him bent and bared. He trails a hand over the muscled curve of Reaper’s ass, light and appreciative--a touch that Reaper’s nerves are far too damaged to register. “You’ll heal in no time, be back to running around in an hour. Let me enjoy you this way, my Reaper...helpless. At my mercy.”

 _As if I have a choice_ , Reaper wants to spit, his lungs burning. Instead he fights for his next strangled gasp of air and tries not to choke on his tongue.

He can barely feel it when cold and slick dribbles down the cleft of his ass, collected by fingers that prod rudely against his hole. It’s an upside to the paralysis, he thinks hazily, mind scrambling for something to focus on besides the digits that pry into him and spear him open; at least with his spine out of commission the haphazard preparation doesn’t hurt as bad.

The cock that butts against his rim, however, the fat head that forces its way into him--that still hurts. The Director’s nails dig into Reaper’s hips and that cock pushes further, splitting Reaper open with a deliberate slowness, shaft sinking in gradually like he savours every second of the rape.

“You’re...mm...just as tight as I remember,” the Director says happily, huffing as he manages to work more of his length into the cool, moist clutch of Reaper’s hole. “Were you saving yourself for me, my Reaper?”

Reaper opens his mouth to reply, but then the body behind him jerks forward suddenly and seats himself to the hilt in his ass with no warning. The pain of the sudden, forceful entry rushes hot through Reaper’s pelvis, down to his toes and back again, washing in waves of prickling warmth over his skin.

Except it’s not just the pain that has him warming.

The smell of it hits him before anything else: acrid, biting, distinct. The Director’s laugh grinds on his ears as he thrusts forward again, and Reaper feels his cheeks burn as the motion makes another few drops of piss dribble down his cock.

“How utterly filthy, Reaper,” he coos, voice laden with obvious sadistic delight at this new humiliation he’s found to inflict upon his pet. “How pitiful...pissing all over yourself, while taking a cock up your ass…”

He trails off into a forceful grunt as he snaps his hips forward again, but it doesn't matter--because Reaper’s nerves have healed just enough to grant him glimpses of sensation, the slightest movement, and he can now feel warmth on his thighs. The pain of the thrusts comes through in sharp bursts, pulls a half-strangled cry from his lips as each one tears him open; but even that pales in comparison to the utter humiliation he feels at the warmth that leaks from his cock with every brutal thrust, the scalding rush of urine down his thighs. 

He knows--some hidden, rational part of him knows--it's not his fault. But the facts about loss of muscle control and a damaged nervous system bring him no comfort when he can feel the piss that streaks his thighs, smell it as spurt after spurt is fucked out of him. It's a unique kind of torture in its fleetingness; because his nerves are reeling, the cybernetics fighting to come back online, and it makes the feelings flicker, the warmth and the pain coming in stuttered bursts of sensation that his body can’t handle all at once. He feels _helpless_ , stripped of control of even the most basic things, and that--that alone--is what makes the tears spring to his eyes.

The ridiculing laughter behind him, however, the feeling of the Director pulling free to spray his cum across Reaper’s bared ass--that’s what makes them fall.


End file.
